


Do You Remember the Score?

by stolenfaye



Series: Attackers Incoming in 30 Seconds [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brief death description, Disorganized Thoughts, Erratic Thinking, Fighting, Humor, Inattentive, M/M, Swearing, Treasure Hunting, Treasure map, Unusual Tattoos, Watchpoint: Gibraltar (Overwatch), not romantic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stolenfaye/pseuds/stolenfaye
Summary: Junkrat is supposed to be doing something, but he can't think what it is...
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge
Series: Attackers Incoming in 30 Seconds [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985131
Kudos: 14





	Do You Remember the Score?

He had a map. He knew he did. 

Somewhere… 

He kept rifling through his blueprints— but they were drawn on gray paper?-- and finding only schematics for half-thought-up bombs. Or grease rags. Lots of those. Where was the bleeding map?!

He really needed it for something! Every night, just before going to bed, or being blown up, or reaching for his canteen, or taking a piss off the side of a mountain, he fought the tic, the urge, the itch to check for it. And any time he stopped to look for it, people kept coming up to him and bothering him, or he’d see a bunch of bright lights and wake up somewhere new. None of it made sense. 

Like today. The very moment that he climbed over the boulders just outside the barracks at Gibraltar— or he guessed, it had to be Gibraltar, cuz nowhere else had mountains like this, right?-- the very moment, he did, the oaf picked him up by the belt.

As Junkrat rotated slowly in the air, giggling awkwardly— fuckin’ nerves— he came face-to-face with the one guy who might know what was going on. Well, he came face-to-mask. 

Even with the big, black thing on— or maybe because of it?-- the smell of bacon, sweat, and pineapple soda washed over Junkrat. 

“Oi,” Junkrat said, speaking clearly because one has to, with this kinda lug to look after, “put me down, you oaf. I’m in the middle of something.” 

The big guy made a sigh or a grunt. “What, scratching your ass?” 

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, fella. I’m the very important one,” Junk reminded him, pointing a gloved finger in his face. 

“Why ain’t you fighting?” Roadhog said, obviously still in a mood. 

“What.” 

Roadhog turned Junkrat back to the entrance to the Overwatch Headquarters, where gazillions of flashing lights, the ratatat of gunfire, and the screams of at least nine people all swarmed around one big, shiny jet car parked out front. Junkrat thought he’d seen this sight before really recently, but he couldn’t think why. 

In fact, why was he here? Since when did he work with Overwatch? 

He narrowed his eyes as he considered, and his body slackened in Roadhog’s grip. “Roadie, who the hell’r these people?” 

“Our team.” Rather unceremoniously, the bodyguard hurled Junkrat to the floor of the neighboring building, right next to a health pack. “Clean yer shit up, then fight.”

Junkrat picked himself up and smoothed his hair back into place. “Yeah, but who’re we fightin?”

Roadhog had a tendency to breathe heavily. All the time. At night, it could be a reassuring rumble. Right now, in this small space, it sent a chill down Junkie’s spine. Slowly, he said, “You don’t even aim, Fawkes.” 

His jaw dropped open. “I’m hurt, Roadie.” He spoke clearly, so the lug could understand. “I. Am. An. Impeccable. Aimer. Remember that guy in the wastes, and I got ‘im right in the gob, and his whole skull just kinda—” 

“Wait.” Roadhog turned into the doorway to slash at some wanker covered in dog fur. Junkrat waited, giggling softly as he listened to the explosions outside. Then the bodyguard turned back to him, a little wetter, a little more grim-n-grimy. He was always a bit hard to read after killing somebody. His voice was hard. “You remember the wastes?” 

“Well, yeah, Roadie— can’t forget some things.” Junkrat waggled the fingers of his mechanical arm. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“No. Do you remember the score?” 

Junkrat stared up at that gas mask. Roadhog breathed laboriously down on him. Somebody fell into a trap Junkrat didn’t remember laying. His finger rammed the detonator that was in his hand without him realizing it. His mouth slowly fell open as he remembered the score. 

...He had…

He had a map. 

Somewhere. 

He patted his pockets, scowling, possessed by this urge to find it because unless he knew it was safe, he wasn’t. Unless he could get back to it, he had no future at all. And maybe, neither did Roadhog. 

His eyes darted to the corners of the small, dark room. Screams were distant— voices he knew, even if he didn’t know why yet. A babbling torrent of voices, screams, shouts, all trapped in this tiny room by the sea.   
He couldn’t swim. 

Where was the map?

Ana was running out of headquarters. He’d just learned that she liked milk tea, too. 

Roadhog’s posture shifted. He even smelled a little different, the way strangers do when they’re nervous. 

Headquarters was being invaded. 

Millions were dying all over the world. Radiation, bullets, omnic-forged blades. 

Vishkar were expanding dangerously. 

He had a map, but where was it?

“Hey, stupid,” Roadhog said at last. His voice was as gravelly and grumbly as ever, but softer, somehow. “It’s on your ass.” 

Oh. Right. 

Much better. 

“Now get yer 50 million dollar ass out there and push the jet. The monkey said he had plans for it.”


End file.
